The Only Prayer

may I be I is the only prayer—
not may I be great or good
or beautiful or wise or strong.
E. E. Cummings

First things first:
While E. E. Cummings sometimes wrote his name
   by decapitalizing the initial letters,
      he did not always do that,
         nor did he expect others to decapitalize his name.
Sometimes he capitalized "I" in his poems,
   sometimes he did not.
He did, however, as far as I can determine,
   always capitalize "God,"
      and any pronoun referring to God,
         and any synonyms for God.
Second things second:
I believe the poet's prayer
   ("may I be I...")
      is the true contemplative photographer's prayer.
Not "may I become great."
Not "may my work be regarded by others as beautiful."
The Cummings prayer—
   our prayer—
      simply goes "may I be I."
May my photography be my photography
   and no one else's.
May my eye see as my eye has been given to see
   and may that be the vision
      that I leave as the legacy of my work with camera,
         of my play with life.
May I offer to the world
   what is my most authentic offering—
      clearly, essentially, purely mine—
         with equal parts of gratitude, humility,
            and, in the largest sense, love.

Kisses

One regret, dear world,
that I am determined not to have
when I am lying on my deathbed
is that I did not kiss you enough.
Hafiz of Shiraz

This Persian mystic and poet calls to me
    across the span of seven hundred years,
        nudging me, urging me.
"Before death calls you,
    make sure you plant plenty of smooches
        on the earth itself.
Cherish creation.
Hold dear the days.
Caress that which is caressable.
Nuzzle that which invites nuzzling.
Nestle close to life.
Make time to enfold and be enfolded.
Be lavish with your love."
The words of Hafiz remind me of my own deathbed,
    and the numbered days I have between now and then,
        and the unnumbered kisses that are mine to give,
            if I only will.

Every Blade

Every blade of grass has its angel
that bends over it and whispers,
"Grow, grow."
The Talmud

I came across this quotation several years ago.
I've always thought it innocently playful,
   like the mental image it conjures.
A tiny sprite leaning over every blade,
   bobbing to and fro,
      a miniature cupped hand to its miniature mouth.
A chorus of elfin voices softly repeating
   "grow...grow...grow...grow"
      until it sounds like a high-pitched "ommmmm."
Blades of grass rousing themselves,
   stretching themselves,
      reaching upward.
All a bit fanciful, I'd say.
A bit over the edge.
And yet...
Is that image much more over the edge,
   when you get right down to it,
      than the image of the deep, rich color of green,
         rather than no color at all ever being created?
Any more over the edge
   than the amazing molecular structure
      that goes into every single blade of grass?
Any more over the edge
   than how each blade is a photosynthesis factory,
      turning sunlight into chemical energy
         in a surprisingly complex way?
Any more over the edge
   than how each blade innately knows
      when to come to life each spring,
         when to return to rest each fall?
Maybe creation itself is one breathtakingly enormous angel,
   whispering, "Go ahead, grow."

Apologies

If you are going to do something tonight
that you'll be sorry for tomorrow morning,
sleep late.
Henry Youngman

I did something for the last two months
   that I am sorry for today.
I didn't post.
I knew I wasn't posting, and I knew it had been awhile,
   but I tried not to think about how long it had been.
Then someone called my office yesterday and asked,
   "Is Jim okay?
      He hasn't posted on The Contemplative Photographer
         since May 7th!
            Has something happened to him?"
Nothing special has happened to me.
I vacationed.
I worked.
But mostly I devoted myself to a new blog
   that's called "The Thoughtful Caregiver."
It also uses my writing and my photography,
   but it's especially designed
      to support and encourage family caregivers.
It took longer to start than I imagined,
   and it required more of my creative energies than I anticipated.
But now "Thoughtful" is up and running
   and now I'm ready to return to "Contemplative."
I won't be posting with the fixed regularity
   that I've committed to with the other blog,
      but I will be posting here more often
         and with more consistency.
I promise.

Wholly Infused

How wholly infused with God
is this one big word
we call the world.
John Muir

It is easy for me
  to tire of the words of theologians.
I embarrass myself to put that in writing.
Sometimes I even tire of words from scripture.
That embarrasses me even more.
Then, every now and again,
  a man like John Muir comes along.
Born in 1838, and never graduating from college,
  he was a ferry operator, sheepherder,
   bronco buster, and industrial engineer
    before becoming one of the greatest naturalists
       in U.S. history.
Using mostly one-syllable words,
  John Muir says simply and freshly
   what is, for me, divine truth.

The Smallest Things

I discover everywhere in the smallest things
that omnipotent hand which supports
the heavens and the earth,
and which seems as it were in sport
while it conducts the universe.
Francois Fenelon

Fenelon's perfectly stated truth
 forces me to drop my pen
   in homage.

Inspired Garden

I hung out at the Chicago Botanic Garden
  yesterday and today.
The floral variety there is overwhelming—
  all the colors, shapes, sizes, complexities.
How could there be so many?
Why are we on earth showered
  with such extravagant, unnecessary beauty?
During my visit today
  something additional caught my eye
   and made its way into my soul:
  the Garden is prepared with such artistry, such sensitivity.
Each tulip bed is arranged in strikingly complementary colors—
  a vividly bright bed here,
   a study is subtle pastels there.
In one bed half of the flowers are deep purple in color
  and the others are a rich burgundy,
   one strong color playing off the other.
Only after sitting there awhile
  did I see that quiet detail
   some thoughtful spirit had carefully planned:
At the base of these foot-tall plants
  was a blanket of cheerful pansies,
   each of which had three petals of the same purple color
    and two of the same burgundy hue.
Why do I write of this?
Because I believe we are at our best
  when we take that which is God-given
   and combine it lovingly and joyfully
    with that which is humanly inspired,
     our humanly inspired.
I believe that may be when
  God is at God’s best too.

Noise

In The New Yorker this week
   there's a short piece about Michael Holleran,
      "the only Carthusian living in New York City."
Carthusian monks usually live in silent monasteries,
   shut off from the world.
They obey a rule that calls for no speaking,
   except for emergencies, while chanting in worship,
      and for a few hours of quiet conversation on Mondays.
Father Holleran left the cloistered life after nineteen years
   because he "wanted to catch up with the modern world."
Here is the point I am getting to:
   he reported that the noise of New York City life
      did not bother him.
"The battle," he said, "is in defeating the noise inside you."
His truth is my truth.
Doing something about the noise inside me takes work,
   real work.
Often I don't do this work well,
   and the noise ricochets inside my head.
It's not a pretty sound.
I do wish, however, to take slight issue
   with the Carthusian father on one point.
I don't believe that defeating the noise within,
   as if in militant combat,
      is the only way to proceed.
I believe that sometimes the racket within
   can fade quite noticeably,
      and even drop away altogether,
   without there having to be a battle to overcome it.
I believe an invitation to let the noise go
   can also be effective.
It's true: the noise doesn't always disappear
   when that invitation is sounded.
But many, many times it does
   when I intentionally, lovingly, slowly,
      and, yes, quietly,
         spend time in fertile places
   with my camera resting lightly in my hands
      while it touches gently my forehead and my nose.
And my soul.